


something so wholesome about you

by crossroadswrite



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Fluff, M/M, Sochi Grand Prix, Vicchan Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 08:08:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10895217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossroadswrite/pseuds/crossroadswrite
Summary: It was supposed to be his year. He was supposed to-Celestino stops talking and squeezes his shoulder. Yuuri looks up at him, opens his mouth to say something when someone says his name.He freezes, holds his breath for a full second against the painfully familiar voice, not daring to hope. Then, very slowly, he turns towards the source, eyes going wide with disbelieve.“Mari?”(Or: in which Vicchan lives, Yuuri doesn't quite fail and doesn't quite get drunk, but manages to accidentally woo Victor Nikiforov anyway.)





	something so wholesome about you

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, shoutout to [LadyDrace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDrace) for the beta!!! She's wonderful and amazing and I love her tons! I would 100% be a mess without her.
> 
> Title taken 'From Eden' by Hozier.
> 
> How this fic came about:  
>  **me:** ey wouldn't it be hilarious if instead of Yuuri turning because he heard his name in that first scene that they meet, it was Victor turning because he heard his name and it was Yuuri calling Vicchan, and Vitya is immediately Shook bc he wants someone to use that commanding voice on him bc boi is the subbiest sub who ever subbed and needs someone to take care of him????  
>  **me:** *writes this soft thing instead*

Yuuri’s knuckles turn white on the handle of his suitcase as Celestino’s words wash over him, cascading off his shoulders without the slightest impact.

He knows he should have done better, the bruises from falling will be a weeks-long reminder of his failure. He knows Celestino is disappointed in him even if his words are congratulatory; even if he offers platitudes and _it could be worses_.

Yuuri bites the inside of his cheek, eyes fixed on the floor, and tries to keep his breathing steady.

It was supposed to be his year. He was supposed to-

The breath rushes out of him in a wheeze when the worst of it hits him.

He can’t go home. He tried - _gods he tried_ \- but there’s no medal around his neck, and he can’t go back home without something to show for it. He can’t possibly go back without something to excuse the money his parents sink into him, something to excuse the absence, something to validate the faith they have in him.

Celestino stops talking and squeezes his shoulder. Yuuri looks up at him, opens his mouth to say something when someone says his name.

He freezes, holds his breath for a full second against the painfully familiar voice, not daring to hope. Then, very slowly, he turns towards the source, eyes going wide with disbelieve.

“Yo,” Mari says, giving him a two finger salute, that wry little smile he rarely gets to see anymore making an appearance.

“Mari?”

“Sorry we couldn’t make it sooner, there was a little set back.” Just as she finishes her sentence, Vicchan pops from inside her jacket, paws scrambling against the material as he tries to wriggle his way out of his confinement.

Yuuri drops his bag with a clatter on the floor and starts running.

Their family isn’t really one for hugs. They’re more about quiet affection passed through a ruffling hand on the top of your head or a fresh meal set in front of you when you’re sad. But Yuuri hasn’t seen his sister in five years, his dog in just as long, so he thinks this time he gets an exception as he barrels into them, wrapping his arms around Mari.

Vicchan wriggles between them, high pitched yips muffled by both their chests, turning his muzzle so he can lick at Yuuri’s chin sloppily.

Mari hugs him for three seconds, just as tightly. When she lets him go, she reaches inside her jacket and takes Vicchan out, depositing him in Yuuri’s arms.

Vicchan whines happily, wiggling in his arms, jumping to give him sloppy kisses that slobber his cheek and chin and glasses and neck.

Yuuri giggles, trips over his own feet and sprawls on the floor but that’s okay, that’s better because he can run his hands over Vicchan’s back without worrying about holding him up.

Vicchan nips at his chin in between licks, bathes Yuuri in dog slobber as he jumps around him, wiggling excitedly under his hands, and Yuuri doesn’t deserve it. Not after a fourth place finish, not after barely missing the podium, but _is he grateful_ that dogs don’t hold grudges. Vicchan should hate Yuuri for leaving him for almost five years, but all he is _excited_ , and it’s exactly what Yuuri needed.

«»

Victor is in the middle of schooling Yuri on his step sequences when the sound of something heavy hitting the floor makes him snap his head to his right.

He recognizes Celestino Cialdani standing next to a fallen suitcase, body angled towards a shorter man running towards a woman.

Victor wonders if that’s his new student. And then he wonders what it would feel like to have someone to run to after a competition, someone whose shape is so familiar and welcoming that you know exactly how to hug them, someone who… takes out a toy poodle from their jacket?

Victor stops walking and turns completely towards the scene, watching the man trip over his own feet and sprawl on the floor, the puppy safely tucked against his chest and covering him in sloppy doggy kisses.

The man giggles, tilting his face away a bit to keep the excited puppy from licking at his mouth.

_Cute_ , Victor thinks, looking him over, suddenly missing Makkachin dearly.

“Who’s he?” he asks, talking over Yakov.

Yuri, more than willing to get away from Yakov’s shouting, takes a step closer to him with a disgusted face.

“Katsuki Yuuri, from Japan. His jumps are shit.” There’s a pause where Yuri’s face morphs into something complicated that Victor is too distracted to pinpoint. “His step sequences and spins don’t entirely suck, I guess. Definitely better than that shitstain, JJ.”

The woman approaches Katsuki and pulls the squirming dog back from his face. He reacts by pulling it back against his chest. She seems amused and offers him a helping hand to get up.

“Who?”

“He placed third,” Yuri spits.

The woman ruffles Katsuki’s hair with the kind of ease and familiarity that only comes with years of practice.

“You sound upset, Yura.”

“I don’t give a shit. Even if they underscored Katsuki and let JJ win.”

Katsuki walks out with the woman, her arm thrown over his shoulders, Celestino carrying the fallen suitcase and trailing behind them with a pleased expression.

Victor only pulls his gaze away from Katsuki when he’s out of sight.

He turns to Yuri and cocks his head. “Sounds like you _like_ Katsuki.”

Yuri goes red in the face. “Shut up! I’m going to crush both of you next year, so you better get ready!”

Victor throws an arm over his shoulder in a poor copy of what that woman had done to Katsuki, and starts dragging him along.

_Next season._

Victor would rather down five bottles of whiskey and go into a comma than think about next season right now. But still he smiles, cocky and sure - an undefeated winner’s smile.

“I can’t wait for you to try.”

«»

“No, no. I couldn’t possibly- I- I didn’t win. And Chris of all people! I couldn’t possibly replace Chris.”

“I don’t think you have much of a choice,” Mari remarks from where she leans against the balcony doors, cigar held aloft between her fingers as smoke slowly curls upwards.

“Yuuri,” Celestino starts, both hands on his shoulders. “If you don’t want to do this, I’ll talk with the coordinators and they’ll ask Cao Bin to perform the exhibition skate.”

Yuuri bites the inside on his mouth, worrying the flesh between his teeth.

“But?” he prompts.

“But you finished fourth. And your exhibition programs are always your best.” Celestino pauses to let the words sink in. “They’re asking for you, _specifically_.”

“You’ll skate on the same ice as Victor again,” Mari pipes up, taking a long drag of her cigarette to hide her grin.

“Mari!” he squeaks.

Vicchan barks at his feet, pawing at his leg.

Yuuri obligingly leans down to pet him.

“She’s right.” Celestino remarks.

“ _And_ I couldn’t see your short program live. I came all the way to see you, little brother. Least you could do is perform.”

Yuuri sighs and picks Vicchan up, plopping both of them on top of the bed.

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

«»

Officially, Christophe Giacometti is currently bedridden with a migraine that had caused him to take a fall and bruise himself to the point where it would be painful to skate.

_Unofficially_ , he’s nursing a hangover and a good handful of bruises he acquired during celebratory sex with his beau of the moment.

Victor, as a good friend, had stopped by to check up on him, and congratulate him on the debauchery Chris was part of the previous night. That had earned an eyeful and a genuine smile of interest when Chris had been informed that Katsuki would be stepping in for him.

“Yuuri’s exhibition skates are always beautiful.” Chris had said. “And scary. All that untapped beauty only held back by ISU’s rules. And his other- _stuff_.” At which point he had tapered off and changed the subject, diverting Victor’s attention from whatever _stuff_ Katsuki had.

To be completely honest, Victor wasn’t expecting much.

He knew _of_ Katsuki, even if he couldn’t immediately put a face to a name. Normally his name came attached to _Japan’s Ace_ and PC scores, much like Victor’s came attached to _Living Legend_ and broken records.

He doesn’t think he has ever seen Katsuki skate. Not _properly_ at least. He’s watched tidbits of programs. Enough to know that he _could_ be good but was too erratic to make any damage, and enough to know he looked up to Victor and paid tribute to him through his skating.

So now, Katsuki is on the ice performing his exhibition program, and Victor stands there, in a costume tailored like a suit while Katsuki looks like a lost prince, the Russian version of _Once Upon a December_ ringing across the arena as Katsuki entraps the crowd and Victor. His movements are slow and aching, reminiscing of something he never had, and in some sort of way, it parallels Victor’s own Free Skate.

He has his heart in his throat, on his sleeve, in his eyes, as he watches Katsuki Yuuri slide across the ice like a dream.

And he wonders: _will he be on the podium next time?_

And he wonders: _can I talk to him?_

And he wonders: _would Makkachin and his dog get along?_

«»

Yuuri is not looking forward to the banquet. He never is, and now, when he can’t bring his sister or Vicchan along, even more so.

Celestino told him he has to stay at least two hours before he can excuse himself. That’s two hours Yuuri will have to suffer through stilted-awkward conversation with sponsors and ISU officials, not to mention the weird not-quite-congratulations-not-quite-condolences people tend to dole out when you do well, but not well enough to be truly remarkable.

It’s difficult straddling that line, Yuuri supposes.

He’d much prefer if no one bothered with it at all, but that doesn’t seem to be an option. Not when the fifth person approaches him and shakes his hand, forcing him to split his lips in a smile he’s uncomfortable wearing and making him itch to reach for another glass of champagne.

As soon as he’s free from that conversation he makes a beeline for the champagne table, looking down at his wristwatch. He winces when he realizes he still has a little over an hour to go. And then winces again when he almost slams straight into someone who crosses in front of him.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, please excuse m-“

He chokes on the words, eyes trailing from the impeccable collar of the expensive shirt and suit, up a pale throat, to settle on Victor Nikiforov’s face.

“Hello,” Victor Nikiforov says, extending a glass of champagne towards Yuuri with his trademark smile. “I’m Victor Nikiforov, I liked your exhibition skate.”

Yuuri stares stupidly at him for what is probably uncomfortably long, face flushing, heart beating double tempo and trying its best to gallop his way out of his throat to deposit itself neatly in Victor’s hands, where it belongs.

“Me too,” he says, in lieu of anything remotely intelligent. He winces, face growing warmer and _oh gods he’s making a total fool of himself in front of Victor Nikiforov_.

He expects Victor to turn on his heel and briskly walk away, but Victor just tilts his head, considering him, and tilts a flute of champagne towards him.

Yuuri takes it greedily and downs it in one go, and it seems like the gods or whatever higher powers that may be are on his side because a waiter passes by with a tray of champagne, allowing him to exchange his empty glass with a full one. He downs that too, and ignores Victor’s climbing eyebrows at the display.

He takes a deep breath.

“Hi, I’m Yuuri Katsuki. I liked your Free Skate.”

Victor smiles. “Nice to meet you _Yuu_ ri.”

«»

When he had approached Yuuri this is not what he had planned, but Victor can’t say he terribly minds. Not after Yuuri had gotten “just tipsy enough to ask you to dance and still remember it in the morning” and proceeded to do just that, spinning Victor across the ballroom like Victor had been wrapped around his little finger this whole time.

He had dipped him, hands bold, face soft, eyes softer, and then Yuuri had pulled him close and held him like Victor ached to be held.

And when Celestino had tried to pry Yuuri off of Victor, Yuuri had intertwined their fingers and made a swift and daring escape from his coach and the other attendees.

Victor had let himself be pulled along, not knowing where they were going, and not caring.

“I’m going to show you, the best thing you’ve ever seen,” Yuuri had said, pressing Victor against the elevator’s wall.

“This is Vicchan! He can do a quad flip too, do you wanna see?” Yuuri had cooed happily as soon as they were in his room, holding up a yipping miniature version of Makkachin.

And now they’re lying on the tiny balcony that Yuuri’s room has access to, the sliding doors closed behind them as Yuuri sits on the floor and leans back against them. Victor is laying down, with his head on Yuuri’s lap, and Yuuri’s fingers in his hair. Like this he has to bend his legs because the balcony really isn’t that big, but he has a dog asleep on his stomach and a beautiful boy smiling down at him and telling him secrets while he pets Victor like he’s something precious and fragile and real.

Victor finds himself holding his breath, as Yuuri talks quietly to him, hoping that he can freeze this moment right here, so he can cup the fullness and warmth he feels in his palms and save it for rainy days when a coma seems more alluring than the next skating season.

«»

In the morning, Yuuri wakes up slowly and unwillingly, eyes squinting against the clarity in his hotel room and catching on Victor Nikiforov, shirtless, with one arm thrown over Yuuri’s waist and Vicchan very comfortably tucked between the two of them.

Yuuri proceeds to scream and fall off the bed.

«»

Yuuri’s shyer in the morning, and Victor will have to be in the airport in a couple of hours.

He takes a minutes to mourn these facts, before he puts his number in Yuuri’s phone and then pushes his own into Yuuri’s hand so he can return the favour.

Victor stands in Yuuri’s doorway and considers if retiring just so he can stay a couple more hours with Yuuri – who still looks soft and sleep pliant, with pillow creases in his cheek, hair smooshed to one side, and an excited dog in his arms – is a viable option. He decides that _definitely_. It’s _definitely_ worth retiring for this. But he has Yuuri’s number on his phone and Yuuri has his, and Victor can’t bring himself to leave Yakov one skater short in the middle of the season.

“Call me,” Victor asks – begs, really, but Yuuri is too nice to make note of the despair in his voice – and then glomps him. Vicchan whines dissatisfiedly from being squished between two bodies for the second time in as many days.

When he pulls back, Yuuri has gone red from the tips of his ears, down the collar of his T-shirt.

“O-okay.”

«»

Nationals isn’t that far away from the Grand Prix Final. A scant couple of weeks, before Yuuri will have to fly back home.

Mari, who hasn’t had a holiday since her last year of high school, is staying with him until then, taking full advantage of him and his coach to get to know Sochi (and later, Detroit) and challenge whoever is in the immediate vicinity to outdrink her.

Luckily for everyone involved, Mari inherited their mother’s tolerance to alcohol, and not their father’s, which means she keeps all her clothes and isn’t likely to be found dancing on a table.

When she comes back from wherever she had disappeared to when Yuuri had gone to the banquet, she finds him sitting, tucked between the bed and the built in closet, his face in his hands and Vicchan trying to pry them away with soft licks and low whines.

She crouches down in front of him. “Who do I need to stab?”

Yuuri peeks from in-between his fingers. He can feel how warm his face still is under his hands.

“Victor asked me to call him,” he confesses, voice pitched low in case this is all a dream and if he speaks too loudly he’ll disrupt it.

Mari stares, then shakes her head and gives him that grin – the one that’s half exasperation, half fondness. “Honestly, if there was anyone capable of seducing their childhood idol it would be you.”

Yuuri chokes. “I did _not_ seduce him.”

“That’s not what the people at the banquet told me. He looked pretty seduced. And happy.” She ruffles his hair. “Good job, little brother.”

Yuuri makes a noise, and goes back to hiding behind his hands.

«»

Yuri kicks him in the shin. “You’re so annoying, old man, shut up.”

Victor continues his stare-down with his phone.

“Staring at your phone won’t make him call any faster.”

Victor squints his eyes slightly.

“We are on an _airplane_. You can’t even get calls here!”

Victor sighs and drops his phone on his lap.

“What if he doesn’t call? I will probably die. I’m too pretty to die, Yura.”

“This again? He’ll call. Now go to sleep or something, I’m tired of looking at you pine.”

“No one is forcing you to _look_. There’s a perfectly nice view of the sky to your right.”

Yuri huffs and turns his whole body away from Victor as a statement, shoving his headphones over his ears and proceeding to ignore him the rest of the trip.

Victor picks his phone back up, and decides to be a little more productive with his staring and open his gallery.

There aren’t that many pictures from the banquet. Not on his phone at least. He thinks Mila has some, and Yuri has most of them, if not all, for a reason Victor will tease him about later.

Like this, sitting on an airplane, miles and miles up over the clouds, staring at the high resolution image of Yuuri dipping him, eyes squinted in a smile, it almost makes him look ethereal and dream-like. Victor is afraid of blinking and Yuuri being gone from the picture, leaving him to fall backwards on his ass.

It’s a beautiful picture, but it’s not Victor’s favorite.

Victor’s favorite is from later, when it was just the two of them. Because while this one is a beautiful picture and there’s some intimacy lining the arch of Victor’s body and how Yuuri holds it, the one he loves the most is like a secret between lovers.

They’re both laying on the bed, and you can faintly see, just on the edges how they’re both holding the phone above them. It’s a little shaky, but the way Victor is looking at Yuuri, a smile he doesn’t remember wearing from a while gracing his lips, as Yuuri’s eyes squint with laughter, face turned towards Victor, Vicchan in the middle of them, craning his head up with his tongue lolling out, wanting to join in on the fun, more than makes up for it.

That’s Victor’s favorite, because Yuuri is beautiful and because the feeling of an almost kiss interrupted by an overexcited puppy still fills him up to the brim in warmth.

He sets it as his background, smiling down stupidly at his phone.

He hopes Yuuri calls.

He can’t imagine him not calling, can’t imagine having to wait until Worlds without speaking to him again. Or worse, Yuuri deciding that _thanks, but no thanks_ and disappearing off the face of the earth.

It would be terribly cruel, for him to give Victor _this_ and then take it away. He doesn’t know how he would cope.

Probably like he has these past years. With sparkly empty smiles and a lot of cuddles from Makkachin.

The flight attendant announces that they’re getting ready to land, and Victor pockets his phone, fastening his seatbelt and nudging Yuri to do the same.

He leans back in his seat and worries, and worries, and worries.

Then they land, and before anything else Victor unlocks his phone and takes it off flight mode.

His phone starts chiming with notifications, and he bites his lip, hoping, hoping, hoping, until his eyes catch on a message and all at once his chest expands and he’s filled with bubbly warmth.

_Yuuuuuuuuuuuuuri_ _❤❤❤_ _:_  
>At worlds I’ll be on the podium with you  
>Vicchan says hi [vicchan.png]  
 >I hope you had a safe flight

_Me:_  
>❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤

_Yuuuuuuuuuuuuuri_ _❤❤❤_ _:_  
> (〃´ﾉω`〃)  
>❤

**Author's Note:**

>  **Kubo-sensei:** "The Grand Prix Final of Tears"  
>  **me, an intellectual:** The Grand Prix Final of Everything Is Just Fine And No One Cries Or Suffers, Ever


End file.
